


Bigby pays you a visit

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: Fables: The Wolf Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: (kinda), (my second fic of the decade & both have been smuts), Bigby may be a touch ooc, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingerfucking, Knotting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Werewolf Bites, dialogue? idk her, oh.. also, probably too many ampersands, rough-ish sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: Bigby is to you, what nicotine is to him.
Relationships: Bigby Wolf/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 174





	Bigby pays you a visit

"Those things'll kill you one day" 

Bigby lets out what can only be described as a grunt in lieu of a proper answer and, out of respect for you, slips the unlit cigarette back into the pack and flicks his lighter shut. His visit had coincided with your return from work and you'd been reluctant to let him in, but all it had taken was one look and now here he is, watching silently as you fold your laundry and pretend you’re not avoiding his gaze. 

He's leaning against the wall, turning the lighter over again and again in his pocket to dissipate some of his nervous energy as he tries to think of something to say. The metal's warm by the time you get back - sans laundry - and he can't help but let his eyes rake over you as you flit around the room; you've changed out of your work clothes into some leggings and a graphic tee so faded that he can't make out whatever it originally said. 

"I was in the area, thought I'd check up on ya" 

It's not a lie, not exactly - after all, he _had_ spent the better half of the day chasing after some petty vandals turned burglars, just… nowhere near here. 

"So you mean to tell me that this isn't a social call?" you say, smiling almost wistfully as you fix yourself some water, entirely oblivious to the look Bigby shoots your way as he appraises you. 

"That's my shirt" there's a touch of annoyance in his tone that he doesn't really feel as he ignores your question, but you laugh it off with a simple " _Was_. I look better in it than you" and he can't help but agree.

It suits you (in truth, all his clothes do) and he can just about make out the dip where your breasts curve, free from the constraints of the bra you'd been wearing earlier. 

He'd liked that sort of thing, way back before all _this_ had started - coming home to find you in one of his band tees and not much else, wrapped up in your own little world as you read or cooked or watched mindnumbing TV, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

If Bigby had to hazard a guess, it's probably down to some primal need inside him not only to mark you, but to always keep you close.

That's the thing those Mundy stories almost always get wrong - marking isn't always about sucking hickeys into your skin until they blossom like wisteria across the nape of your neck, stomach, tits. No, sometimes it's just the simple things. In a way, he thinks it's your way of marking him too, the heady mix of your irresistible scent a constant reminder of who he belonged to each time he put one of his shirts on. He's missed this. 

When you offer him a drink, it's less of an indication that you want him to stay and more of an act of courtesy, but he accepts nonetheless and sprawls out next to you on the loveseat, trying not to let show just how much more comfortable it is than his busted up chair although if the sly twist of your lips is any indication, you already know. He finishes half of the cup's contents in one gulp & sets the rest down on a coaster, wondering idly if you're more of a glass half-full or glass half-empty kind of girl. 

There's so much that he wants to say, but isn't sure how to, so, never one for small talk, he sinks into the couch and shuts his eyes instead, revelling in the comfortable silence that descends between the two of you. It's the first time today that he's had some time to himself, without having to worry about glamour violations or whatever impending Fable disasters are looming nearer, ready to chew him up & spit him out again without so much as a word of thanks. 

"As lovely as this has been, Sheriff, you can consider me thoroughly checked up on."

He doesn't deign you with a response, grunt or otherwise, but you don't let that stop you, rolling your eyes as you turn to face him. 

"I'd give you a ride for your trouble, but my car's—" 

The kiss takes you by complete surprise, one second he's half asleep and the next his lips are yours, muffling your words and turning your train of thought to pure slush.You know better than most that this is a bad idea, know that you should have stood your ground when you'd seen those damn puppy dog eyes but, after the initial shock wears off, you can't help but reciprocate with equal fervour as he sets his hands on your hips and pulls you closer. 

It's innocent enough at first, his stubble's a little prickly &, thankfully, he doesn't taste too much of cigarette smoke, but then he starts those little ministrations that ever so slowly start to creep up your ( _his_ ) shirt and you make no move to stop him.Your own hands are too busy moving of their own accord, first roaming rippling muscle then carding through his hair in just the way you know he likes. He lets out a gruff groan of approval that you _feel_ vibrate through his chest when you tug on his sinfully soft locs to pull him closer and you practically jump at the chance to really _kiss_ him because it's Bigby and no matter what you tell yourself, you've missed this; running your hands over the broad expanse of his back, kisses that leave you swooning and even his smart alec quips - simply put, Bigby is to you, what nicotine is to him. 

A shiver runs through you as he finally reaches the swell of your breasts and - frustratingly - _slows_ , thumb stroking affectionately just beneath your bust even as he pulls away, unsure if you want to take it this far. 

Instinctively, you follow his lead and seek out his touch, whining slightly when he holds you steady, just out of reach. 

You wonder idly if he can hear just how fast and hard your heart is beating as you pull off your shirt, discarding it soon afterwards, and settle onto his lap. Bigby sucks in a breath when you guide one of his hands up to your chest, sure that you don't know the half of just what you're doing to him as he meets you halfway, pupils blown wide with lust. 

_Fuck_. 

This time, you don't bother with any pretense of innocence, kissing him with little to no abandon as you rock your hips just enough to drive him the right side of crazy, tongue running hungrily over sharp canines. He's as hot as a furnace and near panting by the time you begin to unbuckle his belt, but he swats your hand away before you can get very far and - to your surprise - hoists you up against him & _stands_ , your legs locking around his waist instinctively as he heads for your bedroom. 

"Hey, _careful_ —" 

You'd been entirely all too caught up with just how hard he'd felt between the apex of your thighs to reprimand him for such an abrupt upheaval - but when he lays you down, scattering the stack of laundry you'd meticulously folded & intended to put away properly later, you can't help but let the exasperated chide slip out.

Bigby shoots you an almost incredulous look, brow furrowing momentarily, but otherwise pays your misplaced priorities no mind, choosing instead to tug at the band of your sheer leggings with a gruff command of " **take these off** " that raises goosebumps along your arms and sends a chill through right you, straight to your core.

Usually you'd draw this out for longer, make some demands of your own - really put on a show until he's whimpering like a pup beneath you, but Bigby's got a temper like an unpinned grenade &, by the look of those flecks of molten gold bleeding into the brown of his irises - he's getting antsy fast. You can't say you blame him, so you pull off the leggings & what remains of your underwear in one fell swoop, kicking both away somewhere across the floor, and spread your legs for his viewing pleasure, a challenge which he can't resist. 

"Kiss me, Bigby" 

He leans down immediately, your teeth clashing dully with the sheer force of his ferocity as he plants a hand down firmly on the mattress in order to bear the brunt of his weight, the other simultaneously skirting over your pert nipples, stomach, _clit_ , before he slides a finger inside, using the gasp of surprise this elicits from you to suckle at your tongue.

You're almost embarrassingly wet and it's not long before a second, thicker finger joins the first, both moving in tandem, and you have to pull back, leaving just a string of saliva between you two, because you're in borderline 'all-consuming' territory & your stomach's doing mini-somersaults as you fist your hands into Bigby's shirt, wrinkling it all the more. 

He doesn't let up, only starts going faster, repeating all those ministrations you love, only this time on your clit, and crooking his fingers upwards as he does so until you completely come to pieces, nonsense endearments mixing with groans of praise. 

You're still in the middle of your high when he turns you over, pulls you to the edge of the bed & presses a hand down on your back until you're arched just the way he likes, face pressed into the pillow that still smells of him from your last encounter; an earthy mix the contents of which you can't quite be bothered to identify when you hear his belt unbuckle and he lines himself up accordingly, pushing into you slowly & then all at once.

You both groan out in sync - you at being filled so completely & Bigby at just how pliant you are - before he starts to move, steadily building up a rhythm until you're being pressed into the mattress with each thrust, so much so that you have to turn your face to the side in order to breathe freely, though it does little to steady your ragged gasps for air. 

Your shoulders and face soon begin to ache & you can tell from his white-knuckle grip on your hips and the half-crescent divots his nails no, _claws,_ leave in their wake that he's getting to be more wolf than man now as he continues to pound into you, leaving you with little choice but to crumple the sheets for even a semblance of purchase as you grind back into him, completely dizzy with lust. 

He's close & judging by the familiar flutter of your walls around him, so are you, so you turn as best you can to watch, completely in awe of how perfectly your bodies meld together as his expression slowly slips from one of barely contained composure (panting in time with each thrust with the occasional raspy croon) to one of utter abandon, pupils a steady gold now & jaw going slack when you clench deliberately around him and feel his knot build. 

[You remember the first time it'd happened, particularly the sting that had straddled the line between pleasure and pain at the stretch as Bigby's thrusts had grown sloppy, soon stopping altogether. He'd held onto you hard enough to bruise, muscles straining with the sheer effort of what he'd later told you was resisting the urge to just give in and change, focusing instead on just how good it felt to be buried inside you, just shy of your cervix, & your intoxicating scent - a mix of arousal, the tiniest vestiges of fear & everything _you_.

The quickening of your pulse, audible through his heightened senses, and the flash of white-hot rapture that followed had his toes curling, a guttural howl rumbling through his chest as you'd climaxed together - both at your most vulnerable, and yet content.] 

Suddenly, he pulls you up by the back of your neck so that you're flush against him & bites down on your shoulder as he spills his seed inside you, growling lowly as he does so - it _hurts_ , but nonetheless serves its purpose in sending you over the edge and your second orgasm of the day crashes over you like the high tide, carrying you out on a wave of pleasure as tingles of warmth surge through you, Bigby being the only thing keeping you tethered to the shore. 

You're spent when you finally separate, sheened in a light layer of sweat with cum spilling down the inside of your thighs in rivulets that will soon dry into an uncomfortable, sticky mess but - for now - you're content to lay by Bigby's side, half draped over him as the thump of his heartbeat gently lulls you sleep & he presses a kiss to your temple. 

He'll be gone by the time you wake, off somewhere coaxing (read: terrorising) Fables into settling their disputes — but it will have been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I couldn't think of a better title.


End file.
